


Phoenix

by WriterX



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Demonic Possession, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Supernatural Elements, allonym, ao3 fundraiser auction fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterX/pseuds/WriterX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock deduces that John is a supernatural creature. He doesn't want to believe it, but the evidence turns to smack him in the face once he meets two demon hunters in Sunrise Wyoming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allonym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonym/gifts).



> This work is for allonym, who won my duties as a writer for the first AO3 Funraiser Auction! She asked for a prompt where Sherlock deduced that John was a supernatural creature - and said that she was cool if our boys Sam and Dean Winchester came into the picture.
> 
> So thanks to allonym for helping donate to AO3 and I hope you enjoy this!  
> ~X

“I hate flying.”

“I know you do Sherlock.”

“When is this going to end?”

“I don’t know Sherlock. Here, look at the GPS. Figure it out yourself.”

“Dull. Just tell me. It’s faster that way.”

“Faster isn’t always better.”

“And wouldn’t you know that?”

“Oi, shut it.”

Sherlock’s lips lift into a smile, a deep rumble of a chuckle bursting forth between his lips. Beside him, John’s lips tweak into a smile he hides from the detective by turning his head to face out the window. The dark haired man stretches out his legs by drawing them up across John’s lap, leaning his body into the window as he does so. His lips tug up as he watches John’s hands instantly shift to rest on Sherlock’s shins.

The detective glances out of the window of the moving vehicle. His eyes dart down to the watch John had forced him to strap to his wrist after four hours into their plane ride – all so Sherlock could tell the time by himself. Because apparently, discussing the possibilities of jet failure as a cause of the slowed acceleration of the plane was a bit Not Good.

Nearly seven and a half hours. That’s how long Sherlock has been cooped up in this worthless heap of metal that dares call itself a Jeep. His eyes dart back out of the window, taking in the trees that decorate the landscape like frosting on a cake. The sky is a clear crystal blue staring back at the detective like the gleam of a freshly washed mirror.

“Is it really necessary to go all the way out to Sunrise Wyoming?” Sherlock tilts his head at John, posing his question with an incline of his eyebrows. The blonde rolls his eyes, his fingers gently drawing soft circles against the edge of the detective’s trousers, catching skin on every right sweep of his finger. “I’m supposed to be relaxing Sherlock, you know that.”

“I can think of plenty of better places to relax than _Sunrise Wyoming._ ” Sherlock grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and forcing his seatbelt to cut into his jaw. He mutters some dark words under his breath, moving the seatbelt so it’s behind his head but still restricting his waist like a boa constrictor. He pouts at John, expressing his displeasure, but the blonde just laughs and smiles at him, giving his legs a bit of a squeeze.

Sherlock’s pout shifts into the barest brush of a smile before his eyes turn back out the window, searching for something to distract himself from the tingling sensation his arse is getting from sitting in the same position for so long. “Why Wyoming though? It’s not even in the UK!” John rolls his eyes, and Sherlock pursuers the train of thought. “We could have gotten free, first class, _direct flights_ , to the Bahamas or Hawaii or some other beach paradise for you to take it easy.”

He lets out a huff of breath, shaking his head. “But no, _you_ thought that a good way to relax would be to buy tickets that cost nearly £900, for a flight that had three layovers. _Three!_ ” The detective emphasizes with a hand motion, holding up three fingers for John to see. “First flight – we had to drive to Heathrow Airport for a flight that departed at _6: 20 in the morning_ , only to stop off an hour and twenty minutes later at the Charles De Gaulle Airport.” Sherlock pursers his lips at John, looking as if he expects that facial expression to prove to John his displeasure in their predicament. But John doesn’t speak, so the detective plugs on. “Then, we had to wait, which meant you forced me to sit in a seat for _an hour and forty minutes_ until our next flight took off. A flight that lasted for _eleven hours and fifteen minutes_. And then we were delayed because some _idiot_ thought it was a good idea to bring scissors into his carry on bag.”

John simply smiles and brushes his fingers against Sherlock’s ankles, underneath the hem of the leg of his trousers. The warm touch sends a tingle up the detective’s leg, but he’s not about to be distracted. “And then, to top off the whole grand experience, we had to take _another_ plane from Salt Lake City International Airport, to Jackson Hole Airport. A trip that took an hour and four minutes exactly. And now, we’re in a car. We’ve been in a car for seven hours and…” Sherlock snatches a quick glance at his watch. “Thirty seven minutes.” He finishes, heaving out a deep breath and straightening his shoulders back, a frown pulling his expression down into something sour.

The blonde’s fingers brush against Sherlock’s sock, pushing it down a bit to continue drawing those aimless circles with his fingers. “I see you’ve learned to keep track of time effectively.” Those lips pucker into a smirk, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, letting out an aggravated breath. “I just want to get out of this stupid car. I’m so _bored!_ ”

John’s fingers give Sherlock’s leg another squeeze, and his next words answer Sherlock’s first question. “Sentiment Sherlock. My dad used to live here when he was a kid. I just wanted to visit.”

Those words cause Sherlock to fall silent, observing the blonde with soft, calculating eyes, the gears in his head turning – as if he’s been given a piece to a puzzle that’s long frustrated him into the late hours of the night. “You’ve never told me anything about your father.”

The blonde shrugs casually, his eyes darting out the window to observe the countryside. “He wasn’t around much. Wasn’t a huge impact on my life. But sometimes it’s nice to be sentimental. If I’m forced to slow down anywhere, I wouldn’t mind it being somewhere I could do some remembering.”

 _Forced to be slowed down_. Sherlock pursers his lips together, his eyes flickering over John, feeling fingers return to gently stroking the detective’s skin. That’s a bit of a mild way of phrasing that.

 

_“John! Quick! Take my hand!” Sherlock cried out after he jumped up the back of the alley, turned and leant down to offer a hand to the blonde. Their breath was quick in the dark shadows of the night, legs burned from running. John jumped, caught Sherlock’s hand with his own, fingers gripped together as the detective attempted to pull his blogger over the wall._

_There was a loud shot. A sonic boom to Sherlock’s ears. His eyes widened with shock as John’s body twitched, and the blonde looked up at him, his eyes wide and white in the darkness. Fingers slipped from Sherlock’s grasp, even as a cry left the detective’s lips in a brutal roar – watched helplessly as John fell, dead weight, back to the ground._

_Sherlock hopped back over the wall, his eyes burned with fury, desperate to avenge John. But the source of the bullet had vanished, hightailed it out while the going was good. The detective took one look at John – and in the pit of his heart, he knew the man was dead._

_“John,” He whispered, crumbled to his knees in front of his blogger, his lips pursued together, and his throat tightened with unshed tears. “John… no…” He mumbled, fingers clasped John’s hand tightly, and the detective pressed at the blonde’s radius for a heartbeat – but there was none._

_He bowed his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and refused to see the blood seep into John’s jacket. His best friend… his partner… was gone, and the last thing he’d said to him was ‘take my hand’._

_“Ahh!” John screeched out, his entire body shuddered as he took in a sudden deep breath, and his eyes snapped open as he screamed, full of pain._

_Sherlock’s eyes snapped open – because no, that wasn’t possible. He had been_ dead. _No pulse, no breathing, no nothing!_

_But Sherlock didn’t have time to question it, because John groaned in pain, and he was curled into a ball, and his eyes leaked tears that fell onto his chest.  The detective yanked his phone out, dialed 9-9-9, called an ambulance and held John’s hand ever so tightly, and refused to let go of the warm fingers in his own._

By the time they had arrived at the hospital, John had been smiling, and there was no trace of the bullet that had been struck right through his heart. John had laughed it off as a close call while he’d been dressed in white hospital sheets, and the doctor at the hospital thought Sherlock was one screw short of a toolbox. But John’s temperature had been 39.0 °C, and his wrist was split.

In essence, John’s wrist had been wrapped, and he’d been sent home with some vitamins and the advice to take it easy for a week or two. Thus the ludicrous trip to Sunrise, Wyoming.

It’s stupid really. John is fine. Perfectly fine. Just a bit of a temperature – but John has always been a bit on the warmer side. But Sherlock just can’t shake the nagging feeling in the back of his mind – the little voice in his head telling him that he is missing something, missing a piece of the puzzle. And he can’t stop remembering John’s wide eyes that night.

So, he’d set the question to Google. Ridiculous. He’d gone through useless searches of “what animals heal themselves”, “is it possible to heal yourself with your mind?”, “what drugs can fake death” and the like, before Sherlock finally succumbed to something truly crazy.

He Googled “healing tears”.

The first result had been ridiculous – some website for a flower shop that sold “all white healing tears”, which apparently were elegant white flowers to convey your deepest sympathies with graceful beauty that heals the soul. The price was 49.99 American dollars, and ridiculously overpriced for an arrangement of flowers. Although there were all-white roses, lilies, snapdragons, monte casino, stock, alstroemeria, pittosporum, myrtle and spiral eucalyptus together in the bouquet – so there was a bit of a requirement for price. Sherlock never would have bought the flowers though.

The second link had been a website titled “Swiss Army Tears” – and Sherlock didn’t even bother clicking on it. Completely illegitimate and useless to his task.

He shouldn’t have clicked on the third link. Superpower Wiki? Honestly? Could there be anything further from scientifically possible? But he found himself clicking on the link, desperate for any sort of clue as to what happened that night.

_“The power to cry tears that have healing properties. A variation of Healing and Magical Tears.”_

That had been the very first line of the website. Sherlock should have left – honestly, it was a Wiki site, and not appropriate for legitimate research because anyone could change the information. But his eyes had caught on a description: _“Enhanced Regeneration by crying on one’s own wounds.”_

He’d read on for a few of the limitations of the so-called power, and associations with “healing tears”, as well as simple applications. Then the article had gotten to Known Users. Most of the listed users were members of comic books or television shows (Chloe Sullivan from Smallville, Rapunzel from Tangled, Superman from DC Comics, etc.) – but the top result caught his attention.

Phoenixes.

According to Greek mythology, a phoenix was a long-lived bird that could cyclically regenerate or be reborn. They were associated with the sun, and could obtain new life by arising from the ashes of their predecessors. From various sources, Sherlock found links between Phoenixes and the sun, time, Paradise, Christ, virginity, and even freedom.

According to a source that believed Phoenixes were real creatures, or at least, had been real once upon a time – Phoenixes were fiercely loyal creatures and were extremely rare to find, but were immortal. They could lift loads five times their own body weight, they had tears that contained healing properties, they were immune to the gaze of a basilisk, and could even appear and disappear at will. Although that was done rather dramatically through the use of a burst of flames.

And funny enough, apparently Phoenixes could sing. According to his research the singing of a Phoenix would increase courage in those with good hearts, and would strike fear into the hearts of the evil.

But the whole thing is ridiculous. Phoenix? They’re mythical birds that belong in stories of legend, or the Harry Potter books – not in his best friend!

Of course… there’s something… very supernatural about his partner. The constant temperature, three degrees above normal, for one. Then there was the reason they were even out in Sunrise Wyoming – when John appeared to die, but somehow didn’t. How he had cried, and his wound had seemed to shrink in severity. There was the incident that got John invalided home from Afghanistan – he’d had a lengthy discussion with some of John’s old army mates because of this whole incident, and most of them could have sworn that bullet pierced John’s heart.

And then there was the curious affliction that seemed to befall John when they were on the airplane. He was fidgety – even more than Sherlock, who was bored out of his mind. John kept clenching and unclenching his hands like he does when he wants to go out for a walk and stretch his legs.

Sherlock sighs heavily, and unbuckles his seatbelt. John turns his head sharply at the detective. “Sherlock, we’re still moving!”

The detective waves his hand at John, silently telling him not to worry about it. He swings around in the back seat and stretches his body out, shifting his feet to the window, and his head to John’s lap. His eyes slip shut and he snuggles his face against John’s stomach, letting out a soft sigh of contentment as he feels the warmth John emits. Yes, there was something particularly wrong with John… but did that mean it was supernatural?

John chuckles, and Sherlock feels the blonde reach out to grab the middle seat seatbelt, wrapping it around Sherlock’s waist and buckling him in. Then he feels warm fingers tangle underneath his curls, gently massaging at his scalp and playing with the threads of his hair. A soft hum fills the car, and Sherlock feels his body relax, calming down and filling with peace.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

All humans die.

John can’t die.

Therefore, John can’t be human.

Logical reasoning. Sherlock sighs happily as John’s fingers brush against the curve of his ear, scratching an itch the detective didn’t even realize he had.

If John isn’t human…

John has a higher temperature than normal. 

John somehow healed himself… possibly by crying?

John was fidgety on an airplane. No – how does that prove he might be a bird?

Sherlock groans, abandoning his thinking and shifting his body sideways and pressing his face into the jumper John was wearing. He takes a deep breath in as the blonde chuckles, fingers brushing along his hair. Hm. John smells like cinnamon. He always smells like cinnamon.

_When the Phoenix reaches the end of its life, it’s said to build itself a nest of aromatic spices such as cinnamon and myrrh. These spices comfort the bird; they resemble safety and home._

Sherlock grumbles into his partner’s jumper. “I can’t turn my mind off.” He grumbles, complaining, even though his mind has essentially made the decision that John isn’t human – no matter that he looks, breathes and talks like one. He wants to think about it… and yet… he doesn’t. Because if Sherlock follows this crazy train, and it turns out that he’s right… then what happens to him? What happens to John? What happens to their partnership?

No. Whatever happens, he will not lose John. He won’t.

“If it makes you feel any better, the town is in sight now.” John answers, fingers curling around Sherlock’s ear, brushing gently against skin. “Then we can check into a hotel, and then take a nice walk, how about that?” Blue eyes turn down onto Sherlock’s, and the man smiles at him. “Get a chance to stretch your legs out?”

Sherlock tilts his head slightly, looking at John as if he's considering the notion. “I could think of alternate activities that would stretch me out just as much as walking would. Perhaps more.” John snorts at the statement, rolling his eyes as a fond smile attaches to his lips. Those warm hands find Sherlock's cooler ones, and he squeezes tightly. “Bit eager, aren't you?”

The detective smiles, licking his lower lip as he stares up at John. “I have been cooped up for a while. Itching to get some action.”

John just rolls his eyes, the smile refusing to fade from his lips as the car finally pulls to a half. Sherlock forces himself into a sitting position when John starts to squirm, impatient to pay the driver for his trouble. The detective hops out of the car as John pays the man, eager to get out of confined quarters.

The first thing Sherlock does when he's out in open space is to stretch his arms into the sky, feeling his spine uncurl with every crack of his back as he stretches out. He feels like a spring that's been compressed for ages before finally being able to spring free. And god is that a brilliant feeling. Like every inch of stress just washes out of his body and leaves him feeling refreshed.

He strides over to the back of the Jeep, yanking their suitcases out of the back. The detective holds the handles firmly in his hands, glad to be rid of traveling in that horrific cage of metal. John joins him once he's finished paying, and Sherlock has never been so happy to see the retreating end of a vehicle before.

“Come on,” John starts tugging on Sherlock's arm as he takes his own suitcase from the detective. “Check into the hotel and then we'll go out on a walk, okay?”

Sherlock isn't left with much room for argument, the smaller man being able to tug him in the desired direction with surprising ease.

_Can life loads five times its own body weight._

He throws the thought out. It isn't like him to ignore the evidence that's as plain as a hand in front of his face, but really, how would that conversation go? Oh, hi John, I made you some tea. Made it just the way you like it. By the way, are you an immortal bird? No big deal, we can go on our walk now.

No.

Sherlock walks over to the counter of the hotel John pushes him into after the blonde gets distracted by some of the artwork on the wall, admiring the brushstrokes with an open mouth. The detective greets the prim and proper clerk with a grimace-smile, resting his forearm on the counter.

“May I help you?” The man asks, and Sherlock glances down at his nametag. Stanley Yates. His eyes flicker all over the man – curly blonde hair that needs a bit of a trim, bright green eyes, bit of soap by his left ear, clothes ironed out – having an affair with his boss' daughter. Fun.

“Room. For a week.” Sherlock says curtly, taking out his wallet and shuffling through it as the man in front of him chuckles and types away at his computer. “One bedroom or two?”

“One. Also, non smoking room, and preferably one with a view.” Sherlock nods his head, taking out a credit card (Mycroft's. Ha – take that brother) and holding it out for the boy across the counter. Mr. Yates nods his head and smiles, taking the card and typing away at the computer again. “Is yours a snorer?” He asks, his eyes glancing fondly at John across the room, simply happy for the two men.

Sherlock feels his lips slip up into a bit of a smile as a result of the words. “No, I am.” Mr. Yates smiles and swipes Sherlock's card, and then hands it back with two room keys. “Room 17 on the top floor.” He leans over the counter and points down the hall. “Just takes the stairs there, and your room is at the end of the hallway.” The man leans back and smiles at Sherlock, before pulling up a Solitaire game on his computer. “Thank you for choosing our hotel, and we hope you enjoy your stay.”

The room turns out to be adequate to Sherlock's taste. John loves the whole thing, and grins over the little shampoo bottles in the shower, and sighs dreamily at the view from the window – trees, trees, and more trees. Sherlock rolls his eyes and mutters about how the place used to be an old Western town, and how he couldn't believe they were actually there instead of somewhere else. He also teased John about his excitement over little hotel things – and the doctor just pushed him down on the bed and began to stop Sherlock's ever constant talking.

Much later than originally planned, Sherlock and John step outside of the hotel room, decorative purple marks on their necks safely hidden by scarfs. Warm coats wrap around their shoulders – for the time is getting late, and according to the weather report, it is bound to get cold once the sun goes down in an hour or so.

John's fingers intertwine with Sherlock's as they walk down the hall of the hotel, leaving the building while yammering on about the paintings in the main room. Sherlock listens dutifully, piling away John's love of artwork for a later date.

They wander around for a bit, just breathing in the cool evening air. It's mostly silent, but Sherlock doesn't mind it so much. Not when John's fingers are warm in his own, and those blue eyes light up every time he spots another old building, gazing fondly at them – as if he had been here himself before. Another odd occurrence to add to the list of puzzling things about John Watson.

This lasts until they walk past the old jail. “Oh, come on Sherlock, we _have_ to go in and look! It'll be great fun!” John grins brightly, his eyes dancing as he looks at Sherlock. The detective chuckles and follows John, their hands connecting them together as John pushes the door open, the hinges creaking in protest.

“Nothing. There's nothing here! I told you there would be nothing here.”

“Dean, calm down. We've only been here a couple hours. The demon has to be around here somewhere. We'll keep looking.”

Demon?

Beside him, Sherlock feels John go a bit stiff. They're standing in the middle of the doorway, but there's no one in the room they've entered. Sherlock's eyes instantly pick out a door on the side of the room – mostly liking what had once been the old Sherriff's office. That's where the voices are coming from.

“There are only so many people that live in this town. Don't worry, we'll find him.”

“Yeah, just wish this damn thing would pick something – ”

The words stop in mid sentence, and Sherlock hears a beeping start up. His eyes glance over at John, who seems to have gone a bit pale. His fingers squeeze John's tightly – though he's not sure why John looks so worried. The detective licks his lower lip and releases John's hand, starting to walk forward.

“No! Sherlock! Don't!”

John's hissed whisper doesn’t stop him though – because if Sherlock has any faults (probably shouldn't bring that topic of conversation up with anyone besides himself) it's that he just needs to _know_ things. He strides right over to the door and yanks it open.

Two men spin around, turning to face him. Sherlock’s eyes quickly dart over the two of them – one of them is gigantic, towering over even Sherlock. His hair is brown and hangs down to his shoulders. His eyes are a bit hallowed in his face: absolutely exhausted. His face is a bit grizzled, and his hazel eyes stare at Sherlock like he doesn’t know why he’s there. The man is dressed in a plaid shirt, with a brown coat over it.

The other man is shorter, but is still about an inch taller than Sherlock. His hair is cut shorter to his head, and dark brown. Freckles spot his cheeks, and his eyes are brilliantly green and focus on Sherlock with a bit of shock. He is dressed in about three layers of plaid and jean jackets.

Obviously brothers. The taller one is sick of... something. Shorter one hates himself. Tense relationship. Shorter one is having conflicts about his sexual identity (and boy does he know that look well from when John used to wear it all the time).

“Can I help you?” The shorter one asks, his voice gruff as he waves a hand at Sherlock, his brows crunching together as he stares at the newcomer. The detective tilts his head slightly, and his eyes dart to the odd device in the man's hand. There is an antenna on the end, five blinking red lights on the top, and a scale on the screen that seems to be showing - is that an EMF?

“Ghost hunters? Really?” Sherlock asks, scoffing. He folds his arms over his chest and leans against the frame of the door, his eyes judging every movement that the two men make. “Surely you should know that there's no such thing as ghosts.”

“Oh, because you've proven that, have you?” The shorter one snaps back, his eyes cross and looking very much like he could use a couple hours of sleep. His brother glares at him, as if he weren’t supposed to say that.

“Scientifically impossible.” Sherlock answers, waving his hand. “Though, if they did exist, you couldn't have chosen a better place to look.” He glances around the room, his lips set in a grimace, his words dripping with condensation. “Inside a small office of a Sheriff from an old ghost town. Smart.”

“Sherlock, leave them alone.”

He barely hears John - because the moment that the blonde steps up behind Sherlock to lay a hand on the detective's arm, the EMF in the stranger’s hand suddenly jumps crazily, lights flashing and sound beeping like it was having a stroke. The two men exchange an odd look, and Sherlock swears he hears one of them mutter the word "Christo" under their breath.

John's fingers tighten around Sherlock's wrist. “Come on Sherlock. We don't need to bother the two men.” Sherlock glances over at the blonde, noting frantic eyes, bare sweating under his jawline, and his fingers are insistent, his eyes darting quickly to the door. He wants to get out. Why? Why is the EMF reacting to John?

“No, it's alright.” The taller man speaks and he offers John a smile. “My brother just flies off the handle sometime. We know there are no such things as ghosts – I’m just doing a project for my University class. Really, let us apologize. Let us buy you both dinner.”

“Oh, that's really not necessary...” John starts off, but the shorter man jumps in. “No, please, it's the least we could do.” His eyes stick to John suspiciously, and Sherlock doesn't like that look in the slightest.

John's fingers curl into a fist, and he swallows hard, glancing about, trying to look for a way out of it. There is none. Sherlock just stares at him, trying to puzzle out his behavior. Usually John is the nicer of the two of them when they run into strangers. The blonde sighs heavily. “Yeah, alright.”

“I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean.” The taller one answers, and holds out his hand to John to shake. “You are?”

“John Watson.” John answers, shaking the man's hand with a bit of a grimace. "This is my partner, Sherlock Holmes."

The shorter man, Dean, raises an eyebrow. “Partner..? Like, you work together...?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Partner in every sense of the term.” His fingers find John's when he's stopped shaking Sam's hand, curling their fingers together and holding them tightly. Alright, add possessive to his list of faults.

Dean's green eyes dart to their fingers, and then he nods his head. “Right, well. Good for you.”

Somehow, the four of them awkwardly make it to a diner. Sam and Dean keep staring at John – who looks like he wishes the earth would just swallow him up whole. And Sherlock can't make heads or tails of why. They've obviously never met before – so why does John look at the two men with such hard memory painted into his eyes?

Sam orders a salad, Dean orders a hamburger, and John orders some pasta – Sherlock going with nothing. John squabbles with him for a minute on the importance of eating, and the detective finally orders a milkshakes, throwing the blonde a look that says 'are you satisfied?'. John responds with a fond squeeze of the detective's thigh.

John remarks on being thirsty, wondering if he ought to have ordered a drink with his food – and Dean instantly offers to go get him some water. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and watches very carefully as the gruff young man wanders over to the drinking fountain and fills up a paper cup with water. As far as Sherlock can see, Dean doesn't add anything into the drink – although it looks suspiciously like the man is muttering Latin under his breath as he fills the water up.

But he comes back with the water, and John takes a sip of it – both Dean and Sam watching as if they're expecting something terribly important to happen. But nothing happens other than John putting the glass down and thanking Dean for getting him water.

Their waitress comes back to their table, placing their food down on the surface and smiling at the four men. She sets about giving each of them utensils, and Dean moves to help her (since he is closest to the end of the table) and Sherlock watches with narrow eyes as their fingers knock together and they manage to drop one of the sets of utensils. He doesn't say anything, but he notices that Dean exchanges one of the pairs of utensils with one he pulls from his jacket, slightly darker than the rest.

Made of iron.

He watches with lips pursued together as he offers the iron utensils to John.

_It's not a proven fact, but there have been accounts where the Phoenix is shown to be weak to iron. The metal will burn them just as easily as it would hurt demon._

John takes the utensils, and he instantly hisses, dropping the utensils and holding his hand close to his chest. “Fuck, that's hot!” He mutters under his breath, and Sherlock leans back in his seat, realization dawning on him with the occurrence.

There is nothing made of iron in their flat.

Sherlock could see John's fingers burned where he touched the iron utensils.

He watches as Dean and Sam exchange a glance between each other, worried looks on their faces. Sherlock waits until their waitress has retreated to the back of the diner before he says anything. The detective leans forward, his eyes sharp on the two brothers. “You replaced his utensils with iron ones. Why?”

Beside him, John has gone unnaturally still. Sam and Dean exchange another look, and Sherlock frowns. “That device in your hand earlier, it was an EMF. Detects electromagnetic waves. Generally used by men hunting ghosts. Yet, it went crazy near John. You might claim that it was only for a University project, but when we first walked into that old jail. I _heard_ you talking about demons. Now, out with it.”

Sam presses his lips together. “It's a bit of an unbelievable story.”

“Sherlock,” John warns, his voice dangerous, but he can't get out of the booth they're sitting in because Sherlock is sitting on the outside. So he simply raises an eyebrow at Sam Winchester. “Try me.”

Sam shoots an odd look at Dean, one that his brother shares. And then the two of them launch into a story of demons and monsters, telling the two of them about how they heard of a suspicious death in the area, and how it was the work of a demon, who they were trying to catch and kill because that's what they did. Saving people. Killing monsters.

“And I'm sorry, but there's something off about your friend.” Dean finishes, his eyes locked onto John. Sherlock licks his lower lip. “The water - what did you do to it?”

“Blessed it, that's all.” Sam answers. “It's one of the ways to detect demons. Holy water burns them.”

“And so does iron.” Dean mutters, his eyes looking thoughtfully on John, pondering the same puzzle Sherlock has been pondering. What is John?

“Well, I'm not a demon.” John snaps angrily, his eyes seething with anger. “So the two of you can leave us alone.”

Dean presses his lips together. "Well, sweetheart, you can kiss my ass. Because there's something supernatural about you and we're going to figure it out.”

John's eyes flare up. “And then what're you going to do? Kill me? Because that's the only thing you Winchester boys ever do is it? Kill people like me.” He huffs out a breath, cross his arms, furious. “I have done _nothing_ to bother you. Nothing to bother anyone. Can't you just leave me be?”

“For idiots, they’re right about one thing.” Sherlock starts quietly, his eyes on John, who turns to look at him with betrayal sinking into those gorgeous blue eyes. The detective swallows hard. “John, you're always three degrees hotter than you're supposed to be. That iron _did_ burn you.” John draws his hands closer to himself, hiding his hand from view. “You're more fidgety on planes than I am. And John, I _know_ you died that night in the alley. You definitely died. There was no question about it. But when we got to the hospital, you were fine. And I don't know how you did it.”

“Sherlock, leave it.” John whispers, his eyes pleading with the detective. “Please.”

“I did some research.” Sherlock continues, keeping a stiff upper lip – because there is concrete proof that John is not natural in front of his eyes. That iron is cool to the touch – Sherlock can press his fingers against the iron and feel that. But it had burned John. If he were human, that wouldn't have happened. “Specially research of phoenixes.”

“Phoenix? No, that's can't be possible.” Sherlock tilts his head at the gruff words of Dean Winchester, who shares a similar frown with his brother. “There's only one Phoenix in the world, and he's – ”

“Dead.” John finishes, his eyes turned towards the window, swimming with tears. “Elias Finch, March 4th 1861. You shot with him the Colt.”

Sherlock doesn't have time to question what the hell 'the Colt' is, before John's eyes are back on him. “You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?” He smiles, but it's more of a haunted grimace. “You never could just be satisfied with not knowing the full story, could you?”

The detective doesn't say anything, shocked into silence as John folds his hands together. “Yes, alright. I'm not human. I'm a Phoenix. We're extremely rare, but there's more than just one of us.” His eyes lift to Dean's. “And that man you killed here in Sunrise Wyoming back in 1861 was my father.”

Silence falls over the table. Sherlock doesn't know what to say. John really is.... he really is a Phoenix. A supernatural creature. Fuck, Sherlock has been making love to a Phoenix. He's not sure how he's supposed to react to that kind of information.

He ignores Dean and Sam for now. Currently, John is his only concern. Whatever happens, he will not lose John. He promised himself that. Phoenix or not, Sherlock has trusted John with his heart, and he's seen John completely bare before him, body and soul. He fell in love with that man, and it doesn't matter that he's some kind of supernatural creature.

He reaches his hand out, gently intertwining their fingers together. “Why didn't you tell me before?” The detective asks, his voice soft. John turns his head to Sherlock, his eyes filled with tears that the brave little soldier refuses to shed. “Sherlock, I love you. I didn't... I didn't want you to turn me out because you found out I was.... wasn’t human.”

Sherlock squeezes John's hand tightly. “After all we've been through, you really think I would turn you out over this?” He nearly laughs. “John, you’ve put up with the fact that I shoot the wall out of boredom, keep human eyeballs in the fridge, and sometimes wake you up at three in the morning playing the violin. If anything, you should have walked out on me years ago.”

He shakes his head. "John, knowing you're a Phoenix is like telling me that you've got a funny looking birthmark on your thigh. It's who you are. You can't do anything about it, it's just who you are. And I …” He pauses, licking his lower lip. Three years, and it’s still hard for him to say the words that reveal the inner emotions of his heart. “I fell in love with you. Human or not.”

He leans forward and presses their lips together, a soft and gentle touch that causes tears to slip down John's cheeks. The detective feels warm hands wrapping around his body, holding him close as he presses his lips back, showing Sherlock just how grateful he is.

When they break apart, Sherlock uses his thumb to wipe away the tears from John's face. The doctor sniffles, and smiles up at Sherlock before grabbing a napkin to wipe away the remainder of his tears. Sherlock glances back to the other two men. “I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to agree with my partner. He's done nothing to hurt anyone, and you're not going to take him away from me.”

Dean gives them the slightest smile, and his eyes are far away – like he's thinking of someone else. Sam shakes his head. “Sorry, even if we wanted to, we couldn't. Only way to kill a Phoenix is by using the Colt, and we don't have it with us.”

Dean nods his head slightly. “We kill monsters. That's what we do.” The man takes in a deep breath. “I learned a lesson… long time ago back in Red Lodge, Montana with this vamp Lenore.” He swallows hard and shakes his head. “Some creatures can live amoung us without causing any trouble or killing anyone.” His eyes flicker between the two of them. “Neither of you are doing any harm. All I see are two men who love each other.”

Sam tilts his head at John. “Although, we could use a bit of help trying to find our demon. Phoenixes are sensitive to supernatural activity, aren't they?” He glances at his brother and then back at John. “Of course, only if you’re willing to help us.”

Sherlock feels John relax beside him, and he squeezes the blonde's fingers. Then, Sherlock feels the strangest chill on his neck – and everything goes black.

 

~

 

John is ever so relieved that the Winchesters decide to let him live. It had been horrible all those years ago when they had killed his dad – even if it had been so they could kill Lilith. But that ended up with a whole other problem that John doesn’t even want to think about right then.

According to Sam, the demon they are hunting goes by the name of Jim (detail they got from torturing one of the low level demons) and has been recently allowed to surface. Only problem is that this Jim character has a habit of jumping bodies.

He glances over at the empty seat beside him – just a moment ago, Sherlock had excused himself to use the loo. Which is a bit funny since the man hasn’t even taken a sip of his milkshake. John draws the drink close and takes a long sip from it – vanilla. God, it’s been ages since he’s had a milkshake.

“So, you think you can help?” Sam asks, picking up his fork to start poking around his salad, Dean munching on his burger like it’s been ten hours since he last ate a decent meal.

“Probably, but I can’t guarantee anything. I haven’t been around a demon since at least 1920. It might be difficult for me to – ”

John’s cut off in the middle of his sentence as Sherlock walks back to the table, and slides into his seat just like the fluid limbed man he is. But the buzz of alarm in the back of John’s head is exactly what he remembers from back in the twenties. “Sherlock?”

The detective has his hand in front of his face, and he’s stretching out his fingers, his eyes lingering over the movement. The long digits stretched, his head tilts sharply at John, as if his neck has a kink in it. “John Watson.” He whispers, and John feels a shiver shoot down his back at the way Sherlock’s deep voice has been twisted into something with an evil lurch. “Oh, he’s fond of _you._ ”

“Christo.” Dean mutters, and Sherlock’s body flinches, those swirling green eyes of his instantly engulfed completely by darkness, bare specks of white the only reflection in them.

Sherlock tutts, turning to face the Winchester boys. “Oh, now that’s not very nice, is it?” His lips twist into a ghastly grin, morphing Sherlock’s heart shaped lips into something sinister. “I thought we were enjoying our dinner?”

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion – ”

“Stop!”

Sam had started reciting an exorcism in Latin, and John cries out the halting word as the thing possessing Sherlock draws a gun from his pocket and points it at his head, tutting softly. “No, there will be none of that, or you’ll get to see his precious brains spread out all over the floor.” The demon chuckles, black still pushing out green in his eyes.

“What do you want?” John asks, his voice tight, and it’s clear that both Sam and Dean are struggling with how helpless they are in the situation. Even if they didn’t care about Sherlock dying, continuing would mean the demon shot Sherlock, and then escaped before the boys could send him back to hell. And there’s no Devil’s Trap to keep him sitting here.

“Isn’t it obvious?” The demon chuckles, twisting Sherlock’s lips into an unfamiliar smirk. “What’s it like inside your minds? It must be so dull.”

He stretches out Sherlock’s fingers again, admiring them as he stretches Sherlock’s legs out into the aisle of the diner. “Not like this one though. Oh,” The demon licks Sherlock’s lips with his tongue, a grin plastered on his face. “No, the way this one thinks is glorious. I would hate to lose him.”

The demon tilts his head back at John. “Sorry, where are my manners? I’m Jim.” He holds out a hand to John, but the blonde just looks up at the demon with steely eyes. “No? How rude.” He lets out a sigh and withdraws his hand. “Well Johnny boy, the answer is simple. I want… to stay here.” He smirks, fingers brushing down Sherlock’s chest. “Actually, I’d prefer to stay in this meat suit. He’s rather suave, isn’t he?”

Eyes as black as the pits of hell stare into John’s blue eyes. “Of course, you know that first hand, don’t you?” His eyes drop down John’s person, lingering in areas that inform the blonde that the demon has been spending too much time looking into Sherlock’s memories.

The demon laughs when John doesn’t answer. He licks Sherlock’s lower lip, his eyelids hooded as he looks at the blonde, giving the doctor bedroom eyes. “Care to have a roll in the sack with me?”

John’s jaw clenches, his mind racing. What can they do? Dean and Sam can’t perform an exorcism unless the demon is subdued. And that gun next to Sherlock’s head is not very comforting to the blonde. His hands clench into fists. There _must_ be someway out of this.

Jim laughs, throwing his head back, the gun still pressed up against his temple. “Oh, that’s a bit of a shame Johnny. I’d love to see this body naked.” He cackles again, and John glances over at Sam and Dean, both itching to do something, anything. Damn it, if only he could –

Wait.

He’s not human. He has _abilities._ John has spent so much time masquerading around as a human, that’s he’s nearly forgotten.

_The singing of a Phoenix_ _will increase the courage of the good and strike fear into the hearts of the evil._

“He hates you, you know that?” Jim grins brightly, his black eyes focused gleefully on John. “Up here. He blames you for him being put in this state.” He taps the gun against Sherlock’s head. “Oh, if only you could hear how _delicious_ his screams are.” The demon licks his lower lip, chuckling as he picks up Sherlock’s milkshakes and starts drinking it.

“Mh,” He nods his head and puts the drink down, still smirking. “I’m quite enjoying this. If I think of any way to hurt you…” He chuckles, deep and dark, rising from the bottom of his stomach. “If I think of how I’d like to pluck your fingernails off, one by one until you’re screaming…. Or maybe just hit you with iron until you’re nothing but ashes…” He chuckles, dips his finger into the milkshake to get a load of whip cream on his finger, before he licks it off. “Oh, then he just _screams._ ”

John starts humming, ever so softly, just under his breath; the beginning piano chords of the song playing in his mind as he hums. “Step one you say, we need to talk.” His words are slow and careful as he sings, the words barely above the level of a whisper.

Jim laughs. “Singing? That’s really what you’re going to do? Sing?” He snorts, shaking his head. “You’re a lot stupider than I thought.”

“He walks, you say sit down it’s just a talk.” John continues through, singing the soft words. While not a balled or something Sherlock would ever have played on his violin, it’s the first song that pops into John’s head in the current crisis. “He smiles politely back at you. You stare politely right on through.”

The demon’s smile drops off his face. “Now, stop it! That’s just annoying. If you’re going to sing anything, you ought to at least sing Staying Alive.” John’s eyes dart in Sam and Dean’s direction – but even if they don’t yet realize what John is doing, they both look slightly less afraid.

Because if Sherlock is aware inside his own head. Then he can hear John. And if he can hear John… there’s a chance the blonde can increase Sherlock’s courage enough for the detective to fight back.

“Some sort of window to your right, as he goes left and you stay right.” Breathe deeply through his nose. Keep his eyes on the demon’s – pray to see green. The demon’s smile falters even more. He raises his voice.

“Between the lines of fear and blame, you begin to wonder why you came.”

“No!” Jim shouts, but his voice shakes with the fear that’s starting to seed into his heart – because if any sort of creature is evil, it’s a demon.

“Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend. Somewhere along in the bitterness. And I would have stayed up all night. Had I known, how to save a life.”

There’s a flash of Sherlock’s green eyes – his real eyes, not the demon possessed ones. Sam and Dean both snap to attention, courage multiplied.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii omnis legio, omnis congregation et secta diabolica.”

Jim’s breathing gets heavy – and there’s no need for a Devil’s Trap, because John’s voice is keeping him frozen with fear. “Let him know that you know the best. ‘Cause after all you do know best.” Deep breath in, quickly lick his lower lip. “Try to slip past his defense, without granting innocence.”

“No…” Jim squirms in his chair, letting out a ragged breath as he curls Sherlock’s hands into fists. Dean reaches out and snatches the gun from the demon, holding it close to his chest and leaving Jim with no way out.

“Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare.”

“Lay down a list of what is wrong. The things you told him all along.” Deep breath. He sees Sherlock’s eyes flashing out of the black again, and the demon lets out a low cry that’s a mix between pain and anger.

“Vade, Satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem interi tremunt.”

“And pray to God he hears you. And pray to God he hears you!” The demon thrashes about, his head hitting the back of the seat, and Dean yanks out duct tape from his jacket to shut the demon’s mouth up so that no one overhears what’s going on and comes to investigate.

“Ab insidiis diabolic, libera nos, Domine. Ut Exxlesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire te rogamus, audo nos. Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris te rogamus, audi nos.”

“Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend, somewhere along in the bitterness. And I would have stayed up with you all night. Had I known, how to save a life.”

“Terribilis Deus de sanctuario suo. Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem et fortitudinem plebe Suae. Benedictus deus. Gloria patri.”

Jim screams out using Sherlock’s mouth – the duct tape as ineffective as honey to repel flies. John cuts off his singing, hands moving to clasp over his ears at the sound. Black smoke escapes Sherlock’s mouth, drawing itself out of the detective’s body like the work of the Devil. (Which, technically, it is.)

The smoke sinks through the floor – hopefully back to hell where it belongs. Sherlock’s body slumps over onto the table, motionless. John’s eyes are wide with fear, and he reaches out his hands to gently touch the man’s body. “Sherlock?”

“John!” Sherlock cries, his body snapping upright, his green-blue eyes wide with fear as his eyes dart between all members of the table.

John breathes out a sigh of relief, and instantly wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “You’re okay!” He cries, hugging his partner close against his chest, unwilling to let go. Sherlock gasps once or twice, and then returns the hug, his fingers clutching at the back of John’s jacket as if his life depended on holding John as tightly as he possibly could.

“How to Save a Life? The Fray? Really John?” Sherlock whispers into the blonde’s ear, but John just laughs and the two of them cling tighter to each other.

“Hey,” All four men look up as their waitress sticks her head out of the door to the kitchen. “Would you all mind keeping it down in here? Trying to watch America’s Next Top Chef!”

The door closes and all four men burst out laughing.

 

~

 

“I’d love to say it was great to meet you.” Sherlock says as he shakes the hands of the moose and green eyes. “But you know, the whole possession thing kind of threw me off the experience.”

Dean chuckles and shakes Sherlock’s hand firmly. When he draws away, the green eyed man pulls down the collar of his shirt slightly, revealing a black inked image of a pentagram surrounded by fire. “Anti-possession tattoo. Think about it.”

John’s fingers slip into his own as the four men stop shaking hands, standing in front of a ’67 Chevrolet Impala. “If you’re ever in London,” John starts, and Sherlock is pleased to note that his face is much more relaxed than before. “And you need a couple of detectives, feel free to drop on by.”

Dean chuckles and Sam smiles. “If you ever have a bad run in with something Supernatural, you’ll know who to call.”

“Yeah, Ghostbusters.” John jokes, chuckling as Dean gives him a wink in response, the two gruff men piling into their car. The car spins around, kicking up dust before driving away, leaving John waving at the two men as they ride away.

“So,” Sherlock starts once they’re out of view. His eyes turn onto John’s, who looks up at him with worry – obviously. But the possession is something Sherlock is tucking into the back of his mind so he can deal with that trauma at a later time. “Any big things you want to let me know about being a phoenix?”

John chuckles and he squeezes Sherlock’s hand, the two of them starting to stroll back to their hotel. “Well, I do age even if I don’t die. Remember how in Harry Potter, when Fawkes – that was Dumbledore’s Phoenix,” Sherlock rolls his eyes at the unneeded explanation, and John continues with a smirk. “Got really old and then burst into flame? And then he was reborn from the ashes? Well….” He kicks at a stone on the ground. “That’s kind of how it works. I don’t really die, I just get a new, younger body once my current one gets too old.”

Sherlock glances over at the blonde. “So you will be able to grow old with me?”

John laughs and nods his head, squeezing Sherlock’s hand tightly. “It’s something I very fondly plan to do.”

The detective grimaces slightly and then lets out a soft sigh. “Well, if anything has been proved to me today, it’s that there is a life after death.” John raises a questioning eyebrow, and Sherlock graciously supplies the answer. “Well, if there are demons, then there’s a hell. If there’s a hell, then there certainly are angels, and then there’s definitely a heaven – thus, an after life.”

John chuckles at his deduction, and Sherlock can’t help but feel a bit proud of himself. “Then I suppose I might have a bit of waiting around to do once I die.”

The blonde raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock feels obligated to respond. His fingers gently caress the simple golden ring around John’s fourth finger – a ring that matches the one on his own hand. “You hardly think death is going to keep us apart, do you?”

Sherlock watches as John’s face melts. He’s forced to stop walking as John looks at him, that tender expression that makes those blue eyes so soft – a face that nearly stops Sherlock’s heart right in his chest.

“You’re an idiot.” John mutters, but he’s smiling when he presses his lips to Sherlock’s.


End file.
